I have gone through some lengthy attempts to prevent my family from contacting me. Last night I learned it was to no avail. I blocked them on all social media sites I use, most they wouldn't know how to use. I took precautions because they are harmful to me, emotionally especially. They ignite rage and depression and anxiety. Being away from them has helped me overcome a lot of things. But last night, my older sister went so far as to send a message to a dear friend and a newly found niece. She disregarded my need to have her and the rest of my immediate family out of my life by dragging these poor souls in the middle. Mind you, I have made no attempt to contact them in 4 years, and a couple of them six years.
My sister told me that in December she had a heart attack. This may sound harsh and inhumane, but I don't care she had a heart attack. I don't care about any of them, nor do I want to know if any of them die. I walked away because having contact with them was the most destructive thing that was happening to me, for 40 years. It means nothing to me that she or my mom are sick.
So, why am I so pissed?
Because they, once again, completely disregarded what I need and only thought of themselves. They went around and side stepped everything I did to hide from them. I figure, as long as I am on the internet, they will find me.
Wednesday, August 27, 2014
Thursday, August 21, 2014
Medusa, my love
One of my dogs died August 15th, and my heart broke. She had been in my life since she was 6 weeks old. This December she would have turned 14. She was a border collie/lab mix, with the intelligence of both and need for a job from both. Border Collies are known for their need to herd and steer creatures, to get them all in one location. Medusa was no different. She would herd our cats, she would tattle on them if they got on the counters, and if they got too close to us while we were eating, she would "gently" remind them to back the fuck up! She was also not subtle when it came to things she wanted. She had a perfect knack for looking at what she wanted, then looking at me, then back to the thing she wanted. If I did not respond to her request, she would poke me with her nose and make a grumble sound, as if to say, "your ignorance bores me."
As for her Lab side, she loved water, when she was younger and her hips were in better shape. We used to take her and our other two dogs to a lake near us and they would play for hours and sleep peacefully that night. When we finally moved into a house with a nice size back yard, Medusa would take so much delight in chasing the various moles and voles that invaded our yard. On several occasions she got one and ate it. What can I say, she was an animal, a carnivore, that is what they do.
When Medusa was a baby, we had taken her and her brother, Lucky, from a man who didn't take such good care of them and for the first year or so, Medusa did not want to be touched, nor did she want us near her. It took a lot of patience for her to understand we did not want to hurt her. Lucky, on the other hand, was a cuddle whore. When he was full grown, he weighed 93 pounds, and no, he was not over weight. He was just a big boy. He would give the best hugs, placing his on my chest, just under my chin, and lean in until I wrapped my arms around him and held him close to me. He died June 13, 2011. And that was the same time Medusa would no longer sleep in the bedroom where Melissa, Medusa, Lucky, and I shared. Medusa would sleep in the living room with our other two dogs Dori and Charley. But them something happened and she needed to be near me. So, to make Medusa more comfortable and help her sleep, we moved our king size bed into the living room where we slept for over a year. We did this because to us, Medusa was not just a dog, she was our child. We raised her to be the best possible dog, to be kind, to be loved.
Medusa was diagnosed with dementia. Melissa could never quite understand what that meant. She loved Medusa as much, if not more than me, and I think she could not wrap her mind around the fact that this dog, this strong, beautiful creature would ever be anything close to weak. But after Lucky died, something of Medusa went with him.
In July of 2010, a little puppy ran up to me while I was leaving for work. She came to be known as Dori, Dorpeyface, and Face. Lucky did not take to her, but Medusa did. It was strange how Medusa took Dori to raise. Dori learned everything from Medusa; how to wrangle the cats, how to tattle on them, how to ask for things she wants. Medusa would also scold Dori. And whenever Dori needed just to be close to Medusa, she would curl up near her and sleep. Dori feels Medusa's absence.
The night Medusa died, she couldn't get up. Until 8pm, she was able to get up and walk outside to potty, get water, food, readjust herself, albeit with some pain, but she was able to. When Melissa got home, Medusa could not get up. And after so many months watching Medusa have a harder and harder time with her hips, she finally stopped being able to stand up.
For people who not only have dogs (because anyone can have a dog or a pet and not feel that connection with them), but love their dogs, know and fully understand how gut wrenching it is to make the decision to help your dog out of pain. To anyone who thinks that decision is easy, then you never loved your dog. I couldn't go with Melissa when she took Medusa to the emergency vet. We actually waited three hours before making that decision to see if Medusa's pain pills would help her stand up again. She still wasn't able to use her hind legs when she got to the vet. Melissa said it was quick and Medusa didn't feel a thing.
The moment the door closed when Melissa and our friend Amanda left, I walked into the kitchen, grabbed my chest, and sobbed. My knees started to get weak and I walked into the living room and sat on the bed we moved especially for Medusa, and sobbed. Dori came and sat in front of me, worry in her eyes, confusion on her face, and just as Lucky used to, she put her head on my chest just under my chin, and let me wrap my arms around her and I cried until Melissa and Amanda got back.
I love Medusa even though she's gone. Everything in my life for the past 14 years was wrapped around her, Lucky, and our first dog together, Randi. We had the three of them their whole lives, until Dori came to us in 2010. Randi is the only one left out of our three original dogs. He turned 14 this month. Just as Medusa was my heart, Randi is Melissa's heart. I can't imagine losing him. He has gone blind but he gets around like BOSS! Never running into anything, and moves like a champ. Charley knows Randi is getting old and he challenges him constantly but that is the way of dogs.
Even though this process of having a dog is so difficult, I cannot imagine my life without one. They give something to me no other animal has given me. I feel connected to them on a spiritual level. I have never felt afraid with dogs. My mom used to tell me when I was young and saw a dog, I would just go up to it. I still do. I go to PetSmart and watch what we call, "Dog TV," the play area for the pets staying in the pet hotel.
Nothing else calms me the way a dog can. I love them, I care for them, and until I die, I will go through this process of growing with them, and letting them go. Because what I get from them is more profound then anything else in the whole world for me.
As for her Lab side, she loved water, when she was younger and her hips were in better shape. We used to take her and our other two dogs to a lake near us and they would play for hours and sleep peacefully that night. When we finally moved into a house with a nice size back yard, Medusa would take so much delight in chasing the various moles and voles that invaded our yard. On several occasions she got one and ate it. What can I say, she was an animal, a carnivore, that is what they do.
When Medusa was a baby, we had taken her and her brother, Lucky, from a man who didn't take such good care of them and for the first year or so, Medusa did not want to be touched, nor did she want us near her. It took a lot of patience for her to understand we did not want to hurt her. Lucky, on the other hand, was a cuddle whore. When he was full grown, he weighed 93 pounds, and no, he was not over weight. He was just a big boy. He would give the best hugs, placing his on my chest, just under my chin, and lean in until I wrapped my arms around him and held him close to me. He died June 13, 2011. And that was the same time Medusa would no longer sleep in the bedroom where Melissa, Medusa, Lucky, and I shared. Medusa would sleep in the living room with our other two dogs Dori and Charley. But them something happened and she needed to be near me. So, to make Medusa more comfortable and help her sleep, we moved our king size bed into the living room where we slept for over a year. We did this because to us, Medusa was not just a dog, she was our child. We raised her to be the best possible dog, to be kind, to be loved.
Medusa was diagnosed with dementia. Melissa could never quite understand what that meant. She loved Medusa as much, if not more than me, and I think she could not wrap her mind around the fact that this dog, this strong, beautiful creature would ever be anything close to weak. But after Lucky died, something of Medusa went with him.
In July of 2010, a little puppy ran up to me while I was leaving for work. She came to be known as Dori, Dorpeyface, and Face. Lucky did not take to her, but Medusa did. It was strange how Medusa took Dori to raise. Dori learned everything from Medusa; how to wrangle the cats, how to tattle on them, how to ask for things she wants. Medusa would also scold Dori. And whenever Dori needed just to be close to Medusa, she would curl up near her and sleep. Dori feels Medusa's absence.
The night Medusa died, she couldn't get up. Until 8pm, she was able to get up and walk outside to potty, get water, food, readjust herself, albeit with some pain, but she was able to. When Melissa got home, Medusa could not get up. And after so many months watching Medusa have a harder and harder time with her hips, she finally stopped being able to stand up.
For people who not only have dogs (because anyone can have a dog or a pet and not feel that connection with them), but love their dogs, know and fully understand how gut wrenching it is to make the decision to help your dog out of pain. To anyone who thinks that decision is easy, then you never loved your dog. I couldn't go with Melissa when she took Medusa to the emergency vet. We actually waited three hours before making that decision to see if Medusa's pain pills would help her stand up again. She still wasn't able to use her hind legs when she got to the vet. Melissa said it was quick and Medusa didn't feel a thing.
The moment the door closed when Melissa and our friend Amanda left, I walked into the kitchen, grabbed my chest, and sobbed. My knees started to get weak and I walked into the living room and sat on the bed we moved especially for Medusa, and sobbed. Dori came and sat in front of me, worry in her eyes, confusion on her face, and just as Lucky used to, she put her head on my chest just under my chin, and let me wrap my arms around her and I cried until Melissa and Amanda got back.
I love Medusa even though she's gone. Everything in my life for the past 14 years was wrapped around her, Lucky, and our first dog together, Randi. We had the three of them their whole lives, until Dori came to us in 2010. Randi is the only one left out of our three original dogs. He turned 14 this month. Just as Medusa was my heart, Randi is Melissa's heart. I can't imagine losing him. He has gone blind but he gets around like BOSS! Never running into anything, and moves like a champ. Charley knows Randi is getting old and he challenges him constantly but that is the way of dogs.
Even though this process of having a dog is so difficult, I cannot imagine my life without one. They give something to me no other animal has given me. I feel connected to them on a spiritual level. I have never felt afraid with dogs. My mom used to tell me when I was young and saw a dog, I would just go up to it. I still do. I go to PetSmart and watch what we call, "Dog TV," the play area for the pets staying in the pet hotel.
Nothing else calms me the way a dog can. I love them, I care for them, and until I die, I will go through this process of growing with them, and letting them go. Because what I get from them is more profound then anything else in the whole world for me.
Wednesday, August 13, 2014
I get why he did it
I have felt strange since hearing Robin Williams committed suicide. I think it is a combination of him dying but mostly because of what people are saying. "He gave up," "He's selfish," "He should have gotten help." These are people who have never been that close to suicide, have never contemplated suicide, never experienced mental illness.
Mental illness is so pervasive, so burrowing, it drills itself deep into the mind and just shreds everything in its path. We can't control our actions, we can barely control what we say. But there is one creature in the mental illness arsenal that is completely devastating, for everyone involved. Depression.
I am a silly person. By nature, I am funny, witty, my jokes are clever, and I love to see people laugh. When my depression was at its worse, all of that disappeared. I couldn't see a point, I couldn't appreciate nice weather, food lost its flavor, my life felt pale. I tried to commit suicide when I was 19. It wasn't a cry for help, it wasn't attention seeking. I gathered my "supplies" while no one was watching, I quietly went into my room, locked the door, kept to myself, and did what I felt I needed to do to end the suffering. I was suffering. Every second of everyday I spent in throes of utter suffering, some of it caused by the abuse I sustained, but also because I developed depression at a very young age.
I wish I could describe it adequately. I wish I could describe it at all. What does depression feel like? Believe me, it isn't just feeling down. It isn't just a phase of feeling "blue." I heard it compared to, "being in a cave." Yeah, just walking into a cave, feeling for the end, feeling for some sort of light switch, hoping the next moment will lead to some sort of... hope. I'm not using the word hope arbitrarily. Hope has sustained prisoners of war, kidnapped victims, rape victims, and abuse survivors for centuries. It is a truly powerful emotion. But with depression, it's gone.
Imagine, for a second, stepping into traffic. Everything in your executive brain tells you NO! Everything in your executive brain tells you to step back onto the curb, seek shelter, stay alive! But there is another part of the brain, another section in the mind of someone with Mental Illness that screams just a titch louder, telling you to, "yes, step into traffic... do it... there is nothing going forward... there is pain... there is hopelessness... there is nothing... do it... Do It... DO IT!!!" It's overpowering. It literally... LITERALLY takes everything to not step into traffic. It isn't just a mental screaming, it pulls at your muscles. It tries to move you forward into traffic. It isn't the strong who resist. It isn't the weak who give in. It's mental illness. Some make it, some don't. It's a life... long... struggle... and it is exhausting.
We wake every morning after a fitful nights sleep, trying one more day. We try constantly. It is physically exhausting, I can't say that enough. Have you ever been so tired it's difficult to lift your arm? You think to yourself, "I can just fall asleep right here." That's what the exhaustion of Mental Illness feels like. But we can't sleep. For five years I had a bedtime routine. I would let my dogs out, I would get a drink of water and take a fist full of vitamins and in the mix would be 6 503mg of valerian root and 2 tylenol pm. And I might get 5 hours of good sleep. I was one of the lucky ones. I actually fell asleep. I may not have stayed asleep, but I could fall asleep. There are some who can't sleep for days, weeks, and their mental health deteriorates. Then I started taking Pristiq along with my usual nighttime regiment and eventually I was able to stop the tylenol pm, but still take the valerian root to help me fall asleep but now I am sleeping 7 to 8 to 9 hours a night.
But there are some who just can't go on. I don't blame them because I get it. I get that there comes a point when we have tried for that one more day for years and we do it for family and friends. We try so hard. There are some who have tried everything, decades of therapy, one anti-depressant after the next, medicine cabinet full of the ones that didn't work. Years upon years of trying the next thing; yoga, inspirational posters, religion, meditation, over and over, each attempt full of a mixture of hopefulness and fear it won't work.
I'm sorry Robin Williams is gone, I'm sad for his family and friends. But I am probably one of the few who understands why he did it. I will never regret trying suicide, I will never regret failing. But when I was at that point it made sense to me. It was the only option left. So, I get why he did it.
Mental illness is so pervasive, so burrowing, it drills itself deep into the mind and just shreds everything in its path. We can't control our actions, we can barely control what we say. But there is one creature in the mental illness arsenal that is completely devastating, for everyone involved. Depression.
I am a silly person. By nature, I am funny, witty, my jokes are clever, and I love to see people laugh. When my depression was at its worse, all of that disappeared. I couldn't see a point, I couldn't appreciate nice weather, food lost its flavor, my life felt pale. I tried to commit suicide when I was 19. It wasn't a cry for help, it wasn't attention seeking. I gathered my "supplies" while no one was watching, I quietly went into my room, locked the door, kept to myself, and did what I felt I needed to do to end the suffering. I was suffering. Every second of everyday I spent in throes of utter suffering, some of it caused by the abuse I sustained, but also because I developed depression at a very young age.
I wish I could describe it adequately. I wish I could describe it at all. What does depression feel like? Believe me, it isn't just feeling down. It isn't just a phase of feeling "blue." I heard it compared to, "being in a cave." Yeah, just walking into a cave, feeling for the end, feeling for some sort of light switch, hoping the next moment will lead to some sort of... hope. I'm not using the word hope arbitrarily. Hope has sustained prisoners of war, kidnapped victims, rape victims, and abuse survivors for centuries. It is a truly powerful emotion. But with depression, it's gone.
Imagine, for a second, stepping into traffic. Everything in your executive brain tells you NO! Everything in your executive brain tells you to step back onto the curb, seek shelter, stay alive! But there is another part of the brain, another section in the mind of someone with Mental Illness that screams just a titch louder, telling you to, "yes, step into traffic... do it... there is nothing going forward... there is pain... there is hopelessness... there is nothing... do it... Do It... DO IT!!!" It's overpowering. It literally... LITERALLY takes everything to not step into traffic. It isn't just a mental screaming, it pulls at your muscles. It tries to move you forward into traffic. It isn't the strong who resist. It isn't the weak who give in. It's mental illness. Some make it, some don't. It's a life... long... struggle... and it is exhausting.
We wake every morning after a fitful nights sleep, trying one more day. We try constantly. It is physically exhausting, I can't say that enough. Have you ever been so tired it's difficult to lift your arm? You think to yourself, "I can just fall asleep right here." That's what the exhaustion of Mental Illness feels like. But we can't sleep. For five years I had a bedtime routine. I would let my dogs out, I would get a drink of water and take a fist full of vitamins and in the mix would be 6 503mg of valerian root and 2 tylenol pm. And I might get 5 hours of good sleep. I was one of the lucky ones. I actually fell asleep. I may not have stayed asleep, but I could fall asleep. There are some who can't sleep for days, weeks, and their mental health deteriorates. Then I started taking Pristiq along with my usual nighttime regiment and eventually I was able to stop the tylenol pm, but still take the valerian root to help me fall asleep but now I am sleeping 7 to 8 to 9 hours a night.
But there are some who just can't go on. I don't blame them because I get it. I get that there comes a point when we have tried for that one more day for years and we do it for family and friends. We try so hard. There are some who have tried everything, decades of therapy, one anti-depressant after the next, medicine cabinet full of the ones that didn't work. Years upon years of trying the next thing; yoga, inspirational posters, religion, meditation, over and over, each attempt full of a mixture of hopefulness and fear it won't work.
I'm sorry Robin Williams is gone, I'm sad for his family and friends. But I am probably one of the few who understands why he did it. I will never regret trying suicide, I will never regret failing. But when I was at that point it made sense to me. It was the only option left. So, I get why he did it.
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